The First Two Rounds
by IamThePasserby
Summary: War. It was their favorite game to play. Three days, three rounds. No mercy. yeah, it's prankwar fic


**The First Two Rounds**

"Yeah, well you're annoying."

"Yeah, well _you_ suck."

"Do not."

"Do."

"_Not_."

"Worse than coleslaw."

"Dude!"

"Or fishsticks."

"Watch your mouth, Sasquatch."

"Munchkin."

"Lurch."

"Oompa-Lumpa."

"Frankenstein."

"Dwarf."

"Redwood."

"Midget."

"Ugh, dude!"

"Gee, nice comeback."

"That was low."

"Still waiting."

"I'm trying to teach you some ethics, princess."

"You're stalling, precious."

"Whatever, _Samantha_."

"Deana."

"Prude."

"Slut."

"Celebate."

"Dean!"

"Nice comeback, Sam."

"Oh, don't even."

"Eunich."

"Nice, stealing lines from a Disney movie, Dean."

"At least I don't _watch_ Disney movies, Sam."

"Hey, _I_ never saw Mary Poppins."

"Well, _I_ never saw Monster's Inc."

"Yes you have!"

"B-d-w-well, I never saw Finding Nemo!"

"Well I never saw Cinderella more than once!"

"Well _I_ never cried during Bambi!"

"I never _shot_ Bambi!"

"Oh-hooooo...so you wanna go there, huh Mr. Roadkill?"

"'Snot the same, Dean, and you know it."

"Three dogs, two squirrels _and_ a bird."

"I didn't aim and fire!"

"Oh, and don't forget the rabbit."

"So what about 'old yeller had it coming'?"

"Rabies is bad, Sam."

"Excuse me for having a heart."

"There's no excuse for you, man."

"Dude!"

"Who's stalling now?"

The conversation had been like this most of the day.

"Stealing lines from _me_, now?"

"Sam, you're just asking for it, man."

"So why don't you just _give_ it then, Dean."

"Maybe I will."

"Well maybe you should."

"Fine!"

"Fine!"

"War. Normal rules apply. Three days, anything goes-"

"But no re-dos-"

"Or permanents-"

"Or innocents-"

"Aw, c'mon..."

"NO, Dean."

"Fine. Then no cops either."

"What?!"

"Do I need to repeat myself?"

"No, gimme cops, and I'll swear to bailouts."

"..."

"Dean."

"Within six hours."

"Fine."

"And I want innocents."

"..."

"Going once..."

"Limited use."

"Three."

"One."

"Two."

"_One."_

"Okay, one."

"Fine. Starting next roadsign."

"Fine."

"Fine."

"Shutup."

* * *

War. It was their favorite and least favorite game to play. When all else failed and they were at each other's throats, they resorted to it to keep from actual violence.

But then again, violence was technically allowed in the game.

The rules were specific; three days, taking turns, no doubles, pranking until one pulled out or pulled an unbeatable. Allowed use of one innocent: manipulating a person who had no idea what was going on. Allowed use of cops: false alarms, anonymous tips, etc., with promised aided escape from custody within six hours, or automatically forfeit winning the War. No re-dos of past pranks; nair, glued-beer, car radio. No pranks that cause permanent damages: car, scars, incarceration, death.

And the mother of all rules: no supernatural anything.

The prank wars hadn't been implemented for a long time now, but Sam was actually looking forward to it this time. He had some things he was planning, some things Dean would never even try himself, and he knew for sure this time.

This time, there would be no ties or truces. This time, Sam was gonna win.

* * *

They passed the next road sign about ten minutes later, and Dean could definitely feel when the game commenced. He and Sam both tensed almost simultaneously, and the sense of conspiracy in the silence was thicker than thick.

Dean suddenly realized he'd been waiting for this, planning for it without meaning to. The ideas whirled in his head, swirling until he forced them to align in order, deciding which ones to put into action first.

As soon as they got to the motel, it was _so_ gonna be on...

They arrived at the Shady Tree Inn at 4:37 pm. Without a word to each other, they checked into separate rooms.

Dean got into his room, locked the door, and immediately set about putting his room on lockdown. Nobody was getting in there without him knowing it. He pulled his duffel from his shoulder, bringing out the supplies he'd scrounged from the car.

_The car_...no way, Sam knew that the car was off limits.

Right? _Crap._ Dean put his last precaution in place, and then rushed to the front door, water balloon filled with green paint in hand. _Thank you secret stash._ He slowly cracked the door open, ready to launch his weapon or sprint to secure the car if need be.

Except that when he snuck a peek outside, the car wasn't there.

_No._

He pushed the door wider, not about to fall for any stinkin' four-year-old level trick. _No bucket over my head, no guns trained on me, no glue on the ground. _

_Now where the HELL is my car!_

The Impala was gone, no gleaming black beauty, just an empty parking space. Dean stalked toward Sam's door, ready to kill, but then he realized Sam's door was wide open.

_No friggin way._

Dean, with his back up against the wall outside Sam's room, snuck a glance inside. Empty. He braved another look, this time whirling in, arm pulled back with balloon in hand. The bed was still made; the door still had the key in it.

The only way Dean could tell anyone had even been in here was that the window in the back of the room was open, and a note was safety-pinned to it, one phrase of Sam's chicken-scratch scrawl scribbled across it.

_'Score one to me,' _it read.

"Are you friggin' KIDDING me?!"

* * *

Sam had strolled into his room without bothering to close the door. He crossed straight to the back window and opened it, climbing out and pulling a pen and paper from the side pocket of his duffel and scribbling message for Dean on it, then saftey pinning it to the curtain.

He then proceeded to circle around the back of Dean's room, careful to duck under Dean's window, and then slink around to the Impala, parked in front.

Grinning wickedly and struggling not to laugh out loud, Sam pulled out his spare key and opened the car, pulling it out of park and letting it slide down the slight incline, to the opposite end of the parking lot, a good three hundred yards, away. The Impala coasted easily right out to the street's curb without Sam having to touch the ignition.

"This is gonna be so great..."

With a backward glance to make sure he hadn't yet been caught, Sam finally put his key in the ignition, far away enough that the roar wouldn't be heard.

Speeding down the road, he let the laughter out, wishing he could be there to see the look on his brother's face when he realized he'd lost the first round.

* * *

Dean had found the Impala parked in obvious view at first Motel two towns over.

_Son of a friggin..._

He'd had to walk a mile, steal a car, and then walk another mile, but he'd found his kidnapped baby.

_...-ed piece of..._

And, of course, Sam was leaning against the driver's side door of his baby, tossing his key up and down in the air, smirking with one eyebrow quirked, clearly waiting for Dean's reaction.

_...and I'm gonna kick his evil little..._

"Shut up, Sam. It's just a battle, not the War."

"That's not what she said," Sam calmly shot back, pointing his thumb behind him at the Impala.

_...so friggin' hard..._

"Don't get comfortable little brother. It's my turn now."

* * *

Sam had had plenty of time to fortify his new room.

And to map out the whole motel.

And to lay the groundwork for his later plans with some of the locals.

And to locate all of the routes of escape from the motel/bar/diner/Bait and Tackle Shop/town itself.

Basically, Sam was feeling pretty secure in his game plan.

And the knock on his door at 10:42 that night didn't even take him by much surprise. The door had a peephole, so he could see who it was.

A cop. _Lame, Dean. Totally doesn't beat mine; you're still losing._ Sam opened the door like a good citizen, ready to be arrested for whatever false misdemeanor his brother had reported him for.

"Are you Samuel Welsch?"

"Yes, that's me. Can I help you officer?" _See, polite and innocent. Go me._

"I'm afraid I'm going to need to step inside for a moment."

"Wh...oh-okay..." _unexpected, but guess I gotta do what the man says_, "sure, sir, come in."

The officer strolled into his motel room, taking a cursory glance around, as if making sure no drugs were being grown and no weapons were displayed. Sam closed the door and stepped over by the dresser, unsure what to say. He put his hands into his pockets.

"Have a seat, son."

"'Kay." Sam was a little confused now, almost wary. He sat in the chair next to the window and waited to be interrogated.

Once the cop seemed satisfied that all was good and well in the room, he turned to Sam, and gave a small, seemingly bored sigh.

"Alright Samuel, do you know why I'm here?"

"No, sir."

"Right, well dispatch received a call today from a young man concerned about his, ah..." the cop pulled a notepad out of his belt and flipped a page, "um, his 'baby'. Do you know what I'm talking about?"

"Yeah..." something is definitely off.

"Well then you won't mind if baby gets taken care of on his behalf tonight, right Sammy?"

"Excuse me?" what the...

"Surprise!"

The cop's bored expression morphed into a wide, crooked grin that was somehow very creepy, and before Sam knew it, the cop had hit a button on the walky-talky in his belt, and music started playing louder than it should have been able to from the little speaker box, thrumming rave music, and the cop threw his hat off and started to dance, actually _dance_ in front of Sam's eyes.

And Sam was so in shock that he stared open-mouthed, horrified and paralyzed.

Until the stripper cop _DEAN SENT ME A STRIPPER?!?!_ started to, uh, strip.

Sam was up and running before the stripper could even begin to _think_ 'lap dance,' and he flung the door open, reached back for the guy's arm, then shoved him back out into the night, throwing his stupid hat ferociously at him, and then slamming the door.

"I AM GONNA FREAKIN' KILL YOU DEAN!" Sam screamed, knowing Dean could hear him through the walls of the room.

And amidst his pacing and twitching and huffing and cringing and shuddering, Sam could swear he heard Dean's laughter from the other side of the wall.

* * *

Breakfast was uneventful.

The diner was mingling with the few regular patrons, plus a couple of visitors. The waitress had taken their order politely and brought them coffee. That is, the waitress had taken Sam's order, and brought coffe that Dean refused to touch.

It was Sam's turn, and Dean was being very careful.

He'd ordered his own breakfast and had it delivered to his room, where he ate it without having to worry about buried worms in his sausage or hidden horseradish on his pancakes.

Which was totally the kind of thing Sam would try after last night.

"I can't believe you, Dean. That was so wrong."

"Well, I gotta take care of my 'baby,' right?"

"I'm scarred for life. I'll never be able to speak to another police officer again."

"So I should return those cuffs I bought?"

"Dean!"

Dean waited and watched while a grumpy Sam ate his waffles.

About midway through waffle three, it began.

"Hello, sirs, we heard there's a birthday boy at this table?"

"Uh..."

Three servers had come to their booth holding a piece of heavily frosted cake, and smiling cheekily down at him. Sam looked unsurprised. _Okay, what is this..._The waitresses started to sing.

"Happy Birthday-"

"Actually-"

"to you, Happy Birthday _to_ you-"

"It's not really my-"

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY-"

"No, it's _not_-"

"DEAR GAYLORD-"

"What?!"

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOOOOOUUUUUUUUUUU!!!"

"Saaaaaaam..."

"And many more-"

"Oh for the love of-"

"On channel four-"

"This totally doesn't even-"

"And Scooby Doo-"

"even _begin_ to beat mine-"

"On channel two-"

"so try again, _Samantha_."

"And Frankenstein on channel nine, and a big fat lady on channel eighty, and all the rest on TBS..."

It was like the stupid song would never end, and all the while Sam was smiling benignly while Dean glared. And even when the song was over, it wasn't really over, not yet.

"From all the staff here at Donna's Diner, happy fortieth birthday, Gaylord."

"Yeah, yeah, thank y-_forty_?!"

* * *

The rest of the day pretty much sucked for Dean. It seemed the entire town knew about his 'birthday'.

"I don't look a day over _twenty_ _five_, Sam!"

"Hahahahahahahahah-"

"How could they _believe_ you! I can't believe you told _everyone_ I was _forty_!"

"-aha-hahaha-hahahaha-"

"You heard the motel owner, right?! You heard him! 'How's it feel to be over the hill'?! What the hell is that? You went around and told everyone before I even got here you _son_ of a friggin'-"

"AHAHAHAHAHAHA!"

"DUDE! SHUT THE HELL UP!"

* * *

So day two ended. Sort of. Almost.

Sam sat in his room, trying to pretend he wasn't jittery. 11:30 pm and Dean still hadn't gotten him back. It'd been quiet since their late breakfast. Very quiet.

Too quiet.

Sam sighed.

There was no way the Dean would let the day end without striking again_. I think..._

_I hope._

Sam was still sitting and hoping when a scream split the night.

A scream coming from the room beside him, harsh and painridden. Anguish.

"Dean!"

Sam hurled himself from the bed, grabbing his shotgun and bursting out his door. He whirled right around to Dean's door and kicked it in, bringing his gun up to aim at whatever evil thing was trying to hurt his broth-

_Splash! Drip, drip...drip._

There was nothing but silence for a few seconds while Sam stood there, covered in green paint and remains of water balloon. Then Dean started laughing.

"You're a friggin' jerk."

"Hahaha, ahahahahahaaa-"

"That's totally cheating. You can't give me a friggin heart attack just to throw a friggin' water ballon at me!"

"Ahahahaaaahaha, hahahaaa-"

"That doesn't count at all. My last one totally outweighs this in planning, effort, and execution. You're still losing."

"HAAHAAHAAHAAHA!"

"DEAN!"

"But Sammy, hahaha, you're face-!"

Sam turned to leave. Dean was still laughing.

This was NOT over. They'd only been at War for two days.

Day Three was coming, and _man_ was Dean gonna be sorry!

THE END....for now!

**Coming Soon! The sequel to **_**"The First Two Rounds"**_**,**_** "Day Three: The Final Battle".**_


End file.
